


Bertie and the Scripture Knowledge Prize

by elma_macbetsy



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Angst, Assertive Bertie, Bertie's school days, Cheating, Gen, Scripture Knowledge Prize, aunts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 01:31:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9856052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elma_macbetsy/pseuds/elma_macbetsy
Summary: Reposting from old FF account.“I refer, of course, to your Scripture Knowledge prize,” Jeeves continued.“Ah. Yes. Scripture Knowledge. Knowledge of the scriptures. The old testament. The new testament. Jesus; and all of that…”“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves interjected. “And am I to understand that you gained this prize through…shall we say, less than honest means?”





	

It was on the drive home to London after the rather disastrous prize-giving ceremony (involving one Gussie Fink-Nottle, an unknown quantity of gin and some pretty nasty accusations directed at yours truly) that I noticed that Jeeves seemed to want to ask me something. Every so often he would move his eyes from the road ahead of us to my – not very spectacular, or so I’ve been told – face, open his mouth as if preparing for a bally good throat-clearing, and then lose his nerve – if such an expression could be applied to my seemingly permanently calm and collected valet. I quelled the urge to just tell the man to spit it out and decided patience would be the best approach; it was, after all, the way to a gentleman’s – or a lady’s – heart. Or was it the better part of valour? I put the question to Jeeves, who paused his moving, opening and losing of his eyes, mouth and nerve long enough to inform me that patience was merely a virtue – not nearly as exciting as I’d hoped. But! Let it never be said that Bertram Wooster is not a virtuous man.

And patience did not disappoint, for it was shortly after this moment that Jeeves found his nerve – again, if the expression could be applied to said c. and c. man.

“I was not aware that you had been such a keen student, sir.” I tried to decide if that was a backhanded insult to the old grey matter – or lack there of, according to some. “I refer, of course, to your Scripture Knowledge prize.” He continued, before I could defend myself.

“Ah. Yes. Scripture Knowledge. Knowledge of the scriptures. The old testament. The _new_ testament. Jesus; and all of that…”

“Indeed, sir,” Jeeves interjected. “And am I to understand that you gained this prize through…shall we say, _less than honest means_?” I felt my mouth opening and closing – if my aunt Agatha had been there, I expect she’d have made a comparison to a gold fish, or some suchlike. I suppressed a shudder at the thought.

“ _Cheating_? I say, Jeeves, that’s a bit strong, what?” I attempted to convey as much hurt-feeling in my tone as possible seeing as I didn’t like to look away from the road for long enough to employ the ever expressive Wooster features.

“Forgive me, sir,” Jeeves apologised smoothly. “I was merely surmising from Mr. Fink-Nottle’s earlier speech. I should have realised that delusions are one of the less pleasant effects alcohol can have on the uninitiated.” I nodded, perhaps a little more sharply than I’d intended.

“Good. Glad to hear it, Jeeves. We Woosters have a code, you know. We _don’t_ cheat.” This time, Jeeves kept his attention on the road.

“Very good, sir.” I was prepared to declare the subject closed, but I noticed that Jeeves’ eyes still kept moving to his right.

“Well, I mean, that is to say…” I began what I should have realised would be only a futile attempt to explain. “There were extenuating – do I mean extenuating?”

“It’s highly probable, sir.”

“Yes. Right. Well, there were extenuating circumstances, Jeeves, of which Gussie is not aware. Of course, one would never accuse a chum of outright lying, but-” 

“Say no more, sir. Mr. Fink-Nottle was most undoubtedly mistaken.” 

 

Truth be told, Mr. Fink-Nottle was most undoubtedly _not_ mistaken. But, code or no code, some things I simply refused to be ashamed of, and this was one of them. Dishonest as it may have been, the day I’d received my Scripture Knowledge prize – the only recognition I’d ever had that wasn’t for collections of wild flowers – was one of the proudest of my life so far. Or, at least, it was intended to be. And not just of my life – oh, no! – but of my aunts Agatha and Dahlia. 

The death of one’s parents is almost always jarring, particularly to a young boy or to a chap with a multitude of aunts. I fitted nicely into both groups. Now don’t get me wrong. It was jolly decent of aunts A. and D. to take my sister and me in. But life with uncles and aunts, or rather, I suppose, life with these particular uncles and aunts, is very different to life with fathers and mothers. 

I remember my father would appear forever curious as to my life (which is in itself quite a wonder as seven year olds do not lead exciting lives) and would ask me in great detail about my day at dinner every night. “What did you do today, Bertie?” He’d ask. “What did you see? What did you learn?” And I would launch into some story or another about – I don’t know, cats or trees or motorcars. 

“Really?” He’d say when I’d finished. “Did you?” And then my mother would smile and nod. 

“Oh, yes”, she’d confirm. “Bertie’s been ever so busy.” 

‘Busy’ was one of those words favoured by my mother in relation to her son that I’d really very rarely heard since – and there are many others. ‘Handsome’, I seem to recall, and ‘intelligent’ – neither currently very popular opinions. So you can understand why it was a bit of a shock to a fellow to go from that to a life where the general consensus is that he’s something of a chump. All in all, I was quite pipped at the whole thing; and these are, of course, the extenuating circs that one needs to consider before labelling me a cheater. 

I hatched the plan shortly after Aunt Agatha had declared that there was no hope for me, that I would never amount to anything and so forth, although I forget what exactly had provoked her. Well! I’d thought. Of all the blasted nerve! So I’d set about proving her wrong. I would win a prize, I decided – then I’d like to see her tell me I was hopeless. Trouble was, it seemed A. wasn’t the only one who had reached that conclusion about young Bertram. No one at Eton would even consider me for any of the prizes.

I hadn’t really considered the Scripture Knowledge prize. In so much as such thoughts passed through the old grey matter, I suppose I’d lost faith in the scriptures around the time my parents passed. Nonetheless, our chaplain, a man by the name of Winchester as I recall, was a jolly decent cove. He took pity on the young Wooster. My effort and persistence were admirable, he informed me (although probably with more references to said scriptures). The upshot of all of this was that I, B. W. Wooster, was in the running for a prize. 

Well! Much excitement ensued, obviously. I quite threw myself into scripture study, with Gussie Fink-Nottle, also up for said prize, as a companion. The dashed thing was, though, that Gussie seemed to be far more familiar with the scriptures that I’d thought possible – this was before he had discovered newts, you see. I began to realise that while effort and persistence were all very well and good, the prize did rather specifically mention _knowledge_ , something that, on the subject of religion, I was somewhat lacking, and Gussie was somewhat not.

I was rather troubled by the whole thing. I may not have been one of the best and brightest, but I knew perfectly well that ‘runner up’ was absolutely not going to cut it. I started to have dreams, nightmares really, where I was chased all round by a multitude of aunts, all shaking their heads disapprovingly. The upshot of all of this was that I rather lost my vigour for scripture study.

Then came the day that the tide turned, as they say. Following a particularly disappointing performance in Bible study, Winchester pulled me back after all the other fellows had toddled off. Said he wanted a word with me about ‘work ethics’. Asked what could have happened to put off a bright chappie like myself. Before I could explain, a boy dropped in to say there was a call for the chaplain. He rushed off, leaving me quite alone.

Now, one must understand, what happened next was completely and utterly unintentional. I wasn’t clear if I was to wait for the chaplain to return, you see, or if I was to dash off to the dinner hall for a spot of luncheon. It gave me a terrible case of the nerves, and I began to pace around a bit to try and calm down. It was as I was pacing that I happened to pass by Winchester’s desk. On it, there was a piece of paper that said, plain as day, ‘Questions for the Scripture Knowledge Prize’. 

Of course, I had a look. Just a little peek. It would have taken someone much stronger than I to withstand that temptation. And only then if they weren’t Aunt Agatha’s nephew. The dashed thing was, once I’d started, I couldn’t seem to stop. Before I knew it, I’d read the whole lot several times over and committed as much as possible to memory. I scuttled off, learnt as many of the answers as I could, and then the exam was a breeze. 

So that was how it came to be, that Bertram W. Wooster won the Scripture Knowledge prize that year. I won’t pretend that I didn’t feel just a smidgen guilty, but soon perked up when I got to write to both of my aunts with the good news. There was to be a special ceremony for prize winners and their families in the Great Hall, followed by tea on the lawn. I staggered around in something of a daze for a while, imagining standing up on stage accepting my prize, while looking down on Aunts Agatha and Dahlia in the audience. I imagined how proud of me they would be. How they would immediately revise their opinions of me. I simply couldn’t wait for the big day.

Of course, when it all came around, it was not as planned. My name was called, I stood from my chair at the side and toddled up the stairs onto the stage. I accepted my award, and looked down into the audience. And didn’t see a single familiar face. I checked again. No. Still not. No Aunt Dahlia. No Aunt Agatha. There was a distinct wobble of the Wooster bottom lip, but I rather kept myself together otherwise. No one had come to see my big day or to have afternoon tea with me on the lawn. No one was proud of _me_. 

 

It was as I considered said extenuating circs that I, once again, observed Jeeves slide his gaze across to myself. Well! These particular thoughts of my past combined with the feeling of being judged in the present proved to be too much.

“Yes he blasted well was mistaken! And so are you, might I add!” I saw him look questioningly upon this statement. Of course – when was _Jeeves_ ever mistaken? But this just served to make me angrier. “Maybe your master is not ‘mentally negligible’ after all!” At least the man had the decency to look abashed at that. 

“Sir, I-”

“Dash it, Jeeves, don’t interrupt! _I_ am the master, _you_ are my servant! It’s not _your_ place to comment on my _intelligence_! Rest assured, I have more than enough aunts to do _that_.” I immediately felt the urge to apologise for my outburst, but I pushed it down. As bad a chap as I felt, I was…glad, I suppose, that I’d said it. I didn’t assert myself often, but this time, self was truly asserted, and it was jolly good feeling. There would be time to make it up to him later, anyway. Perhaps I’d let him have his way with those rather spiffy socks I’d recently acquired…


End file.
